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The Law of the Drama 



P u 


B L I C AT IONS 




of the 


Dramatic Museum 


of Columbia University 




IN THE CITY OF NEW YORK 




First Series 


Papers on Playmaking: 


i 


The New Art of Writing Plays. By- 
Lope de Vega. Translated by William T. 
Brewster. With an Introduction and 
Notes by Brander Matthews. 


ii 


The Autobiography of a Play. By 
Bronson Howard. With an Introduc- 
tion by Augustus Thomas. 


in 


The Law of the Drama. By Ferdinand 
Brunetiere. Translated by Philip M. 
Hayden. With an Introduction by Henry 
Arthur Jones. 


IV 


Robert Louis Stevenson as a Dramatist. 
By Arthur Wing Pinero. With an Intro- 
duction and Bibliographical Appendix by 
Clayton Hamilton. 



J 

PAPERS ON PLAY-MAKING 

in 

The Law of the Drama 

BY 

Ferdinand Brunetiere 

with an introduction by 
Henry Arthur Jones 




Printed for the 

Dramatic Museum of Columbia University 

in the City of New York 

M CM XI V 






COPYRIGHT I 91 4 BY 
DRAMATIC MUSEUM OF COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY 



DEC 17 1914 



©CIA3S8858 

Y 






CONTENTS 

Introduction by Henry Arthur Jones i 

The Law of the Drama by Ferdinand Brunetiere. . 63 

Notes by B. M 91 



(,** 



INTRODUCTION 

Has Brunetiere in this fruitful and sugges- 
tive essay really discovered the universal law 
of the theatre, — or rather the universal law 
of the drama? 

[It is convenient that in English we use the 
word drama to signify the entire art of dra- 
matic writing, while in French the word 
theatre has to be used to signify the art of 
the written drama. The drama and the 
theatre are so often antagonistic to each 
other; they so often differ, if not in their 
body and essence, yet in their interests and 
aims, that we should always be careful to 
distinguish between them. Much of our 
confusion of thought in matters dramatic 
and theatrical arises from our constant habit 
of using the words drama and theater as if 
they were always interchangeable terms. And 
tho for the purposes of the present paper 
they might be so used without much risk 
of confusion, yet I will lose no chance of 
noting that there is often a wide distinction 
between theatrical and dramatic, between 



the theater and the drama. So much so 
that I have often said that the greatest enemy 
of the English drama is the English theater.] 

Has then Brunetiere, in this remarkable 
essay, discovered and expounded the verit- 
able and universal law of drama? 

Those who are concerned to know should 
first carefully read the essay itself. They 
should then study Professor Brander Mat- 
thews's comments and illustrations in the first 
chapter of his volume the 'Development of 
the Drama' and also the chapter on the 'Law 
of the Drama,' in his later book 'A Study of 
the Drama.' With these things fresh in 
their minds they should turn to the chapter 
'Dramatic and Undramatic' in Mr. William 
Archer's finely analytical and comprehensive 
book on 'Playmaking' — a useful manual for 
young playwrights, full of valuable hints. 

By the time the inquirer has studied all 
these things he will have both sides of the 
question before him. His decision in favor 
of Brunetiere's theory, or against it, will 
probably be taken according as he has the 
more lately read Professor Brander Mat- 
thews or Mr. William Archer. Or, seeing 
that our opinions on most subjects are gen- 



erally molded by our instinctive sympathies 
rather than by facts and arguments, the in- 
quirer may decide the one way or the other 
according as he implicitly accepts the doc- 
trine of free will with Professor Brander 
Matthews, or ranges himself as a determin- 
ist with Mr. William Archer. 

For myself, I am a rigid, inflexible deter- 
minist. No other theory of the universe is 
credible, or will bear examination. I firmly 
believe it — in theory. But in practice I find 
myself lapsing and backsliding all the day 
long into the unrestrained indulgence of my 
free will. Therefore my lurking sympathies 
are with Brunetiere; and I think that, with 
a little coaxing and enlargement, such as in- 
deed he asks from his readers — with this lit- 
tle adjustment and explanation, I think 
Brunetiere's law will be found to be valid 
and operative, if not universal, thruout the 
drama. 

But Mr. William Archer is not only, like 
myself, a convinced, inflexible determinist, 
I am persuaded that he is also, unlike myself, 
a consistent one. I am sure he takes care 
that his practice agrees with his opinions — 
even when they are wrong. And in the 
3 



present matter Mr. William Archer makes 
out a good case against Brunetiere. He 
presents it in his usual clear and logical way, 
and fortifies it with ample and varied illus- 
trations. (See 'Playmaking' p.p. 23-33.) 

Let us first challenge Mr. Archer's argu- 
ments and illustrations, and then let us see 
whether they cannot be agreeably "recon- 
ciled" with Brunetiere's law. When a play- 
wright finds eminent dramatic critics dis- 
agreeing, it becomes his business to "recon- 
cile" them. Besides I love "reconciling", the 
favorite sport of theologians. Of course, 
one cannot get the same amount of genuine 
fun from "reconciling" doubts and difficul- 
ties in the drama that one gets from "recon- 
ciling" doubts and difficulties in theology. 
One ought not to expect it. Dramatic pro- 
fessors may not permit themselves those 
playful little dodges with words and facts 
which make theological "reconciling" such an 
amusing game. The Drama is a serious art, 
especially when serious persons like Mr. Wil- 
liam Archer and myself get to work upon it. 
If then our present exercise affords us some 
small balance of mental profit we must be 
4 



content to leave the mere gaieties and frivoli- 
ties of "reconciling" to theologians. 

Brunetiere's law as translated by Mr. 
William Archer runs as follows: "Drama 
is a representation of the will of man in 
conflict with the mysterious powers or natural 
forces which limit and belittle us; it is one 
of us thrown living upon the stage there to 
struggle against fatality; against social law; 
against one of his fellow mortals; against 
himself if need be ; against the ambitions, the 
interests, the prejudices, the folly, the male- 
volence of those around him." 

It will be seen from this that, according 
to Brunetiere, the protagonist has a pretty 
wide choice of persons and things to pit him- 
self against; and he must be a very unreason- 
able, or a very unfortunate man, if he cannot 
manage to pick a good round quarrel with 
one or the other of them. 

Again, Mr. Archer translates — "The the- 
ater in general is nothing but the place for 
the development of the human will, attack- 
ing the obstacles opposed to it by destiny, 
fortune, or circumstances." 

In this definition of his law, Brunetiere 
abandons the idea of a personal struggle or 
5 



duel, and widens his formula until it prac- 
tically includes everyman in the everyday 
struggle of everyday life. Indeed, taking 
this definition we may use an American 
colloquialism and sum up Brunetiere's law as 
follows: — "The theater is nothing but the 
place where a man finds himself 'up against' 
something, and attacks it." 

Now the first of the plays which Mr. 
Archer brings forward to refute Brunetiere 
is the 'Agamemnon.' Well, who can deny 
that Agamemnon on his first entrance was 
"up against" something? Indeed he was 
"up against" what Americans would, I fear, 
irreverently, and a little loosely call "a 
tough proposition." 

I gathered that much, even in Brown- 
ing's translation. And it became clearer 
still to me in Bohn's prose version, which I 
was obliged to get to translate Browning. 
Further, in the opening scene there is a sense 
of past struggle, a backward glance and sug- 
gestion of possible scenes of temptation and 
resistance between Clytemnestra and JEgis- 
thus. It is true that the Greek drama did 
not permit the introduction of these into the 
action of the play. But such scenes are lat- 
6 



ent in our minds; and if Shakspere had 
written an 'Agememnon', they would prob- 
ably have been set in the forefront of the 
action in great "acting" scenes akin to those 
in the second and third acts of 'Macbeth.' 

'CEdipus' is the next play that Mr. Archer 
quotes to refute Brunetiere. But if Agemem- 
non was "up against" a "tough proposition," 
what shall we say of CEdipus? Not all the 
giant powers that preside at the mint of the 
modern American vocabulary, not all the 
smelting houses of modern American idiom, 
with all their furnaces in full blast, could coin 
a sufficient phrase to express the concatena- 
tion of adverse circumstances that CEdipus 
finds himself "up against." Surely no man 
since the world began has ever been "up 
against" a "tougher proposition" than 
CEdipus — except Mr. William Archer and 
myself, who for thirty years have been "up 
against" the task of reforming the English 
drama. 

It is true that CEdipus does not "attack" 
the obstacles opposed to him by "destiny, 
fortune or circumstances." In this respect 
he differs from Mr. William Archer and my- 
self. But it is difficult to see how CEdipus 
7 



could have acted otherwise than he did. He 
was not aware that Aristotle was going to 
select him as the type of tragic hero; or that 
Brunetiere was going to discover the law of 
drama towards the end of the nineteenth 
century; or that Mr. William Archer was 
going to dispute Brunetiere's law. Even if, 
CEdipus had, with the aid of Tiresias, been 
able to foresee all these things, he had so 
much family and national business on his 
hands at the moment that it would have been 
impossible for him so to guide his conduct 
as to "reconcile" all these eminent critics. 
He would still have been obliged to leave 
that job to me. 

As the matter stands it must be allowed 
that CEdipus by remaining passive under his 
misfortunes, has rather given Brunetiere 
away. It is true that in 'CEdipus', as in the 
'Agamemnon,' there is some latent sense of 
struggle, and again we may be quite sure 
that if Shakspere with his larger form of 
drama had written an 'CEdipus,' we should 
have had scenes of direct personal conflict; 
that these scenes would have been set in the 
forefront of the action; and that he would 
consequently have written what to a modern 
8 



audience would have been a more vivid, more 
absorbing, more exciting play — a better act- 
ing play. 

It remains to be noted that the perform- 
ances of Greek tragic drama at the time of 
iEschylus had something in them of the 
nature of a religious festival. Doubtless 
this religious feeling, which was of course 
widely different from our modern religious 
feeling, declined to some extent in the days 
of Sophocles and Euripides. This is ap- 
parent in the later dramatists' treatment of 
their stories. But all the Greek dramatists 
were dealing with the traditions and subject 
matter of the religion of their country. We 
cannot come to the performance of a Greek 
play with the same feelings as a Greek audi- 
ence. The Greek drama can never interest 
an average modern English audience except 
as an antique curio. We may be quite sure 
that it aroused a different set of feelings in a 
Greek audience, and that these feelings were 
to some extent of a religious nature. 

We must not however infer that these re- 
ligious feelings aroused in the Greek audi- 
ence had the same lofty soul-saving power 
as the feelings aroused in American and 
9 



British audiences of today by our modern 
religious masterpieces of drama such as 
'Have you found Jesus?' and 'Maria, the 
Early Martyr.' See the testimony on this 
point of some hundreds of American and 
British clergymen and ministers who have 
been moved to advertise the genuine soul- 
saving power of these plays. 

No, the Greeks cannot have been so laud- 
ably bent on the great business of saving 
their souls in the theater as are our American 
and British audiences today. 'Prometheus' 
and the 'Agememnon' and 'CEdipus' cannot 
have saved so many souls as 'Have you 
found Jesus?' and 'Maria, the Early Mar- 
tyr.' Again, the Greek tragedies were pass- 
ably well written, but not with the same 
luscious unction of salvation as the recent 
"holy, oily" successes of our American and 
British stage. When it comes to the vital 
business part of religion, either on or off the 
stage, no race can hope to do the trick like us 
Anglo-Saxons. And I should have been in- 
clined to yield the palm in this respect to the 
Americans, had not the Bishop of Liverpool 
shown himself to be abreast of the times, 
when the other day, in a truly business-like 
10 



spirit he urged the advantages of advertising 
religion. 

These things are by the way. Be they as 
they may, nobody can dispute that when it 
comes to mixing up amusement and relig- 
ion in the theater we modern Americans and 
Englishmen can "lick creation."* The 
Greeks cannot have resigned themselves as 
we do to lose all sense of drama in the thea- 
ter, in pursuit of the far more important busi- 
ness of saving our souls. 

Still we may take it, that the impression 
made upon the Greek audience by such trag- 
edies as the 'Agememnon' and 'CEdipus' was 
not wholly a dramatic one. The pleasure 
they sought in the theater was not wholly and 
merely the pleasure given by drama. This 
makes it a little doubtful whether the 
'Agememnon' and 'QEdipus' can be accepted 
in contravention of Brunetiere's law — even 
if they do entirely contravene it. All that 



*I adorn this paper with as much slang as possible, 
in admiration of the sparkling dialog of some of our 
most successful recent British and American plays. 
But the deficiencies in my education, and the nature 
of the discussion limit my opportunities, and I am 
obliged for the most part to relapse into plain gram- 
matical English. 



can be safely affirmed is that when the drama 
and religion get mixed up in the theater, much 
that is not strictly dramatic, much that is 
quite undramatic, will interest and hold, and 
even enthrall an audience. 

On the whole however, Mr. William 
Archer in pointing out that Agamemnon and 
CEdipus are passive under their misfortunes, 
that there is no will struggle in their great 
scenes, which are yet indisputably dramatic 
— in marking this Mr. William Archer has 
established a strong position against Brune- 
tiere, so far as the Greek drama is concerned. 
I am obliged to hand over to Mr. Archer 
the scalps of Agememnon and CEdipus. 

I do not think he is equally successful in 
the examples of Western European drama, 
which he brings against Brunetiere. Before 
we proceed to examine Mr. Archer's more 
modern instances, let us enquire what would 
be the effect upon us of a play, perfectly 
constructed from beginning to end according 
to Brunetiere's principle; that is a play which 
would exhibit a series of conflicts of human 
will, manifesting themselves in action, from 
the rise to the fall of the curtain without the 
least intermission. 



We get some approach to such a play in 
the cruder and more violent specimens of 
popular melodrama. What is the result? 
Character drawing has to be sacrificed. 
There are only impossibly good heroes and 
impossibly wicked villains. Again, there is 
too much plot. The action proceeding at 
such a violent rate is plainly seen to be im- 
possible. Further, the play misses its chief 
end — that of giving an impression of life. 
It does not interest us, because it is obviously 
false and unreal. Moreover it becomes mo- 
notonous; it loses variety, therefore it quickly 
tires an audience. *The most successful melo- 
dramas are those into which "comic relief" is 
most abundantly introduced, and where this 
sense of will conflict is relaxed or removed 
at times. * But even these scenes of "comic 
relief" are most successful when they contain 
a conflict of wit, or of humor, or of mere 
words. 

We see then that if Brunetiere's law is true 
and valid, if the drama is really a struggle 
of will power, there is a triple necessity laid 
upon it that this struggle should often be 
kept below the surface of the action. If it 
is always emergent, always apparent, always 
»3 



demonstrating itself, the dramatist must 
renounce his claim to subtle or even truth- 
ful character drawing. He will write a 
crude, violent play, incessantly strident and 
restless and shrieking; he will give his audi- 
ence no interludes of change and repose; he 
will tire and irritate them by his lack of 
variety. Above all his play will not give 
the impression of life. For even the most 
determined of us is only intermittently bent 
upon any course of action. We must eat 
and sleep and carry on the trivial business 
of life for the greater part of our time. 

For all these reasons the struggle of wills 
in a play must often lose itself beneath the 
surface of the action, as a river sometimes 
loses itself underground, but still keeps flow- 
ing. Or sometimes indeed this struggle of 
wills will be entirely concealed, like the gird- 
ers supporting a house under apparent solid 
masonry, which would fall in ruins without 
the hidden straps of iron. We see the iron 
girders only when we remove the bricks and 
look beneath. 

Let us keep in mind this triple necessity 
laid upon the dramatist of occasionally or 
frequently diverting the current of will power 

H 



and submerging it beneath the surface of 
the action. Though hidden it will yet be 
the dominant moving power of the play,' as 
a river even when burrowing beneath and 
undermining a mountain, is yet the governing 
factor in shaping the landscape. Let us also 
remember that Brunetiere does not claim 
that in all plays the will struggle must be 
concentrated in a prolonged duel between 
the two leading personages. According to 
the necessities of the story, it may be di- 
vided and diffused between opposing groups 
of persons; or split into divers tributary 
manifestations — here between two minor 
personages; there between a character or 
characters and destiny, or circumstance, or 
social law. Further let us again insist that 
many things which are not strictly dramatic 
hold and amuse us in the theater, and indeed 
may rivet our attention — pretty faces, danc- 
ing, gorgeous scenery, songs, processions, 
etc. Moliere and Congreve were often 
forced to divert and hold the attention of 
their spectators by dragging in songs and 
dances. 

With all these considerations in our minds 
let us proceed to examine those plays of West- 
15 



ern Europe which Mr. Archer gives as not- 
able instances of drama that disprove Brune- 
tiere's law. The first of these is 'Othello.' 
But surely Othello is struggling all through 
the latter part of the play, if not directly with 
Iago, yet with the successive tangles of evi- 
dence which Iago in binding round him ; with 
his own doubts and suspicions and fears ; with 
his own growing sense of crumbling domestic 
happiness and military renown. Othello is 
by no means passive like Agememnon and 
CEdipus. He makes us imagine what 
Agememnon and CEdipus would have been 
if Shakspere had handled them. Othello is 
indeed blindfolded like QEdrpus, but he does 
not accept his doom. Othello puts up a 
good fight against the fate that he feels, but 
does not see. But even granted that Othello 
is passive, which he is not, Othello is not the 
protagonist of the play. Iago is the real 
protagonist, as every actor who has played 
Othello knows. And where in all drama is 
such a superb energy of pure will, ceaselessly 
driving and scheming its way thru and round 
every obstacle; undiverted by passion; un- 
moved by pity; unshaken by remorse; opera- 
16 



tive in every scene of the play from its open- 
ing lines to the closing 

O Spartan dog! 
More fell than anguish, hunger or the sea? 

Where else in drama is such pressure, alert- 
ness and sublimity of pure unconquerable 
will as in Iago? To me the play of Othello 
offers a shining instance of Brunetiere's law 
in full play — accepting Brunetiere's own defi- 
nition. 

'As you like it' is Mr. Archer's next "awful 
example." "Where is the conflict in 'As you 
like it'?" Mr. Archer asks. Certainly there 
is no continuous personal conflict in this de- 
lightful comedy. Many of the scenes that 
please us are not drama ; and even while they 
please us, we may easily perceive that the 
pleasure that we take in them is not the true 
pleasure of drama. And because the drama 
in 'As you like it' is so weak and loose and 
intermittent, it has never had a great and 
striking success in the theater. The charac- 
ter of Rosalind is so winning that it will al- 
ways draw us to the theater if it is played by 
a favorite actress. But I think whatever suc- 
cess 'As you like it' has won on the boards 
may be largely ascribed to the vogue of some 
17 



leading lady. I question if it has ever been 
so popular as to make money for the manage- 
ment; while I suspect that in several instances 
much money has been lost in forcing a run. 
But there is much delightful word conflict in 
'As you like it' ; between Rosalind and Orlan- 
do; between Rosalind and Celia; between 
Rosalind and Touchstone. And there is much 
finely contrasted character. These things, if 
they may be claimed as comedy, are certainly 
not drama. They are amongst the many 
other things that, as I have already noted, 
interest and hold an audience in a theater 
without being drama. They are the kick- 
shaws which we eat and enjoy; but they do 
not make a dinner. 

But beyond these things there are a few 
elements of will conflict in 'As you like it', 
very weak and scattered and inconsequent it 
is true, not much related to each other, of 
little force or continuity. Yet take these 
away from the already tenuous framework, 
and the comedy would drop to pieces. It 
would scarcely be actable. They are the 
precarious straps and props that do really 
hold it together as a play. 

'Ghosts' is the next play which Mr. 
18 



Archer opposes to Brunetiere's theory. And 
here he has a very strong case indeed. 
In this terrible yet fascinating play Ibsen ap- 
proaches the Greek construction. It is very 
simple. The drama opens at a late climax 
of the story. The events and passions that 
have led to the present scenes happened long 
ago; yet they are a living part of the body 
of action, and must have been dramatic in 
themselves. In the present scenes Ibsen mir- 
rors in a large vague way these past char- 
acters and passions and events. 

No art is so rigidly economic as the drama. 
One sentence may give us all that is prac- 
tically worth knowing of a man's past his- 
tory. As for instance, when in 'She Stoops 
to Conquer' Gregory says of the ould Grouse 
in the gunroom story, "We've laughed at 
that story any time the last twenty years." 
Mr. Hardcastle's life and character are vir- 
tually painted there. 

Ibsen in 'Ghosts' darkly mirrors in the 
present action the dreadful outlines of the 
past; darkly shows us bygone sins and pas- 
sions in whose transactions the human will 
must have played its part. There must be 
some picturing of these in our minds as we 
*9 



witness the actual scenes of 'Ghosts.' The 
stricken survivors in the play are like the 
stricken survivors from the Titantic who 
brought with them from the far mid-Atlantic 
to the New York dock the tokens and images 
of past disaster, and forced the spectators 
to reconstruct the whole tragedy. 

But the shuddering far backward glances 
we take from the successive platforms in 
'Ghosts' scarcely impress us with a sense of 
any past will conflict that is operative in the 
present action. It can scarcely be urged that 
either in the mirrored past, or the actual 
present, there is any dominant, or even sig- 
nificantly latent struggle of the human will 
that moves the action of the play, or contri- 
butes to its effect, or that even holds it to- 
gether. Yet nobody who has seen 'Ghosts' 
on the stage can deny that thruout it is in- 
tense, poignant drama. In successfully 
bringing forward three such signal instances 
as the 'Agememnon,' 'CEdipus' and 'Ghosts' 
to refute Brunetiere, Mr. Archer may claim 
to have disproved the universality of Brune- 
tiere's law. 

What then is the clue to the absorbing in- 
terest which 'Ghosts' arouses in spectators, an 
20 



interest which is indisputably that of drama ? 
What has 'Ghosts' in common with 'Aga- 
memnon,' 'GEdipus' and all other plays, or 
scenes of plays, where our attention is 
gripped and sustained? To reduce it to a 
general statement — is it not this, that a char- 
acter in the play is "up against" some oppos- 
ing circumstance, or person, or fate? In 
'Ghosts' Oswald is "up against" the Spiro- 
chaete pallida, — which, I am told, is a for- 
midable, though a merely microscopic antag- 
onist. I think that many other modern plays 
and scenes of plays may be found on examina- 
tion to shake our faith in the universality of 
Brunetiere's law. So far as I remember, the 
dramatic interest of the 'Bells' as Irving 
played it, — certainly the climax of dramatic 
interest in the last act — was not due to an 
assertion of will, but rather to the fact that 
Matthias, like Agamemnon and GEdipus and 
Oswald, was "up against a tough proposi- 
tion." And in many trial scenes that have 
been successful on the stage, it will I think be 
found that the dramatic interest arises not 
from a conflict or assertion of will, but again 
from the fact that some person, generally 

21 



the hero, is "up against a tough proposi- 



tion." 



Mr. Archer having so strongly proved his 
case against the universality of Brunetiere's 
law, we need not dwell upon his further illus- 
trations, except as they seem to be fallacious 
or questionable, and to point to the existence 
of some more general and more inclusive 
law than the one formulated by Brunetiere. 
Mr. Archer goes on to say u No one can say 
that the balcony scene in 'Romeo and Juliet* 
is undramatic." But can anyone say that it 
is truly dramatic ? Would not the play be a 
complete whole, would the action suffer mate- 
rially, would the play be less comprehensible, 
if the balcony scene were merely indicated, 
or cut down to a fourth of its length, as it 
probably would be in a modern prose play? 
The scene does indeed hold us, but not by its 
essential drama. A play entirely made up 
of such scenes would not be dramatic. Is 
not the balcony scene, as a whole, lyric rather 
than dramatic? Again, to take the oppo- 
site side for a moment, might it not be plaus- 
ibly argued that in all love scenes there is a 
subtle implication of an after physical con- 
flict, wherein each combatant struggles for 

22 



mastery in self-surrender? In that sense all 
love scenes are dramatic because they sec- 
retly indicate an impulse towards dominancy 
in self-surrender, towards self-assertion in 
self-sacrifice. 

Mr. Archer also advances the scene in 
'Paolo and Francesca,' the death scene of 
Cleopatra, and the banquet scene in 'Mac- 
beth.' These are scenes that necessarily link 
together other scenes of struggle in plays 
where the human will is a dominant motor 
of the action. 'Paolo and Francesca' is 
not a very dramatic story thruout. Dante 
has seized its one moment and left little for 
any follower to glean. Dramatists might 
be content to leave it to Dante. The pas- 
toral scene in 'A Winter's Tale' is not dra- 
matic, except in the moments and scenes 
where the story of the play intervenes and 
is carried forward. 

Mr. Archer says "In the whole range of 
drama there is scarcely a passage which one 
would call more dramatic than the screen 
scene in the 'School for Scandal' ; yet it would 
be the veriest quibbling to argue that any ap- 
preciable part of its effect arises from the 
clash of will against will. This whole com- 
*3 



edy indeed, suffices to show the emptiness of 
the theory." 

On the contrary, I think it might be fairly 
argued that, granting Brunetiere's explana- 
tion and enlargement of his law according to 
Mr. Archer's own translation, viz — "one of 
us thrown living on the stage there to strug- 
gle against . . . social law, against one 
of his fellow mortals, against . . . the 
ambitions, the interests, the folly, the male- 
volence of those who surround him — " 
granted this, it may be fairly argued that the 
'School for Scandal' falls as comedy within 
the operation of Brunetiere's law. Comedy 
does not demand so fierce and intense an as- 
sertion of the human will as drama. It is 
concerned with less serious affairs. Its 
struggle is not against fate, and u the mys- 
terious powers or natural forces which limit 
and belittle us." Its struggle, involving the 
human will, is against the prejudices, follies, 
whims, foibles and small vices of mankind. 
In ordinary talk we distinguish between 
comedy and drama. 

Granted this, and it is expressly granted 
in Brunetiere's definition as quoted by Mr. 
Archer, there is a very real, tho largely im- 

*4 



plied, conflict of the human will in the 'School 
for Scandal.' Joseph has a very strong will 
to seduce Lady Teazle, to blacken Charles, 
and to become Sir Oliver's heir. The oppo- 
sition between Joseph and Charles, tho 
Charles is not very conscious of it, and tho 
it is not obtrusive, is yet the foundation arch 
of the 'School for Scandal.' Take it away, 
and the play totters, if it does not fall. Then 
there are vivid will conflicts, of course in a 
comedy vein, between Sir Peter and Lady 
Teazle in the delightful quarrel scenes. 
These will struggles of the earlier acts are 
carried forward and underlie the screen 
scene. They are what make it a piece of 
drama. Withdraw them and their implica- 
tions, and the screen scene would almost lose 
its dramatic effect. In opposition to Mr. 
Archer's dictum that the 'School for Scandal' 
shows the emptiness of Brunetiere's theory, 
it may be claimed that it rather conspicuously 
illustrates Brunetiere's law working in com- 
edy. It is questionable whether Congreve's 
absence from the English stage for the last 
hundred years or more is not largely due to 
the fact that there is a comparative absence 
of will conflict working continuously thru 
25 



the play and woven into a connected scheme. 
In none of Congreve's four comedies is there 
a will conflict that much interests us, except 
that of Mirabell and Millamant; and these 
scenes are vivid and alive when they are acted 
today. Maskwell indeed has a determined 
will, but we cannot believe in his preposter- 
ous schemes and plots. Congreve's con- 
struction is always loose and inconsequent; 
and it is this lack of constructive power that 
has prevented him from being a popular dra- 
matist. For Congreve's wit is far brighter 
and more piercing than Sheridan's, and his 
character drawing is larger, truer and more 
vigorous wherever the two dramatists can be 
compared. 

Before quitting the 'School for Scandal' 
we may notice as a clue to some larger 
and more general law of the drama than 
Brunetiere's, that Joseph is "up against" 
Lady Teazle's resolution not to lose her chas- 
tity when it comes to the final test ; that he is 
u up against" Sir Oliver's determination to 
try the characters of his nephews; and also 
"up against" the old Nabob's sneaking fond- 
ness for Charles; that Charles, tho uncon- 
sciously, is "up against" Joseph's wiles and 
26 



hypocrisy; that he is also "up against" Sir 
Oliver's plan for trying his character; that 
Sir Peter is unconsciously "up against" Jo- 
seph's wiles and hypocrisy, and "up against" 
Lady Teazle's possible seduction by Joseph; 
that Lady Teazle is "up against" Joseph's 
wiles and her own lightness and carelessness. 
All these leading characters are "up against" 
one of the obstacles included in Brunetiere's 
long list of opposing circumstances — not per- 
haps very violently and rigidly "up against" 
these facts and circumstances and human 
wiles, as they would be in tragedy and serious 
drama, but sufficiently, and for the most 
part lightheartedly, as befits the characters 
in comedy. 

I have now analyzed each of the plays and 
scenes that Mr. Archer brings forward to re- 
fute Brunetiere's theory. I have shown that 
many of these so far from disproving it, do 
indeed go far to prove it; or at least to indi- 
cate that Brunetiere was groping and stumb- 
ling on the right path towards a universal 
law of the drama. Indeed Mr. Archer 
himself lends some countenance to Brune- 
tiere when he says that "conflict is one of 
the most dramatic elements in life, and that 
27 



many dramas — perhaps most — do as a mat- 
ter of fact turn upon strife of one sort or an- 
other." And further, that "a stand-up fight 
between will and will is no doubt one of the 
intensest forms of drama." 

When in addition to granting this to 
Brunetiere, Mr. Archer brings forward such 
plays as 'Agamemnon,' 'CEdipus,' and 
'Ghosts,' and shows that we can have great, 
intense drama, certainly without the present 
assertion of human will, largely without the 
past assertion of human will carried for- 
ward into the present scenes; and also with- 
out a conscious fight against fate, or oppos- 
ing circumstance — when Mr. Archer shows 
this, he has proved Brunetiere's theory, not 
indeed to be quite empty and worthless, but 
rather to be suggestive of, and included in 
some larger and more general law which is 
of universal application. 

Having, as he claims to have done, demol- 
ished Brunetiere's theory, Mr. Archer goes 
on to have a theory of his own. Here Mr. 
Archer might perhaps have remembered that 
Archibald Spofforth in his exhaustive, but 
rather exhausting, treatise on 'Radical Falli- 
bilities of the Human Brain' comments very 
28 



severely on our inveterate propensity to pro- 
pound theories, and shows how imperfect an 
instrument the human brain is for this pur- 
pose. In a very elaborate mathematical ar- 
gument, which I was not able to follow, but 
which all my experience and observation 
prompt me to accept most cordially, Archi- 
bald Spofforth claims to prove that, taking 
the masses of theories already propounded by 
mankind on all subjects, the probability of 
any given theory being right is as i to 241,- 
743.* This it must be owned is a very sport- 
ing chance, and the enormous odds against 
Mr. Archer may well excuse him if he has 
formed a wrong theory of the drama ; as in- 
deed they may plead for some leniency 
towards myself if I am venturesome enough 
to launch a theory of my own. 

"What then," Mr. Archer asks, "is the 
essence of drama if conflict be not it? What 
is the common quality of themes, scenes, and 
incidents which we recognize as specifically 

*In matters of Theology, Spofforth claims that 
the odds against any given theory being right are 
increased, and stand at 4,741,604 to 1 — an estimate 
which seems on the face of it to be over cautious. 
But theological matters, interesting as they are in 
themselves, need not detain us here. 
29 



dramatic? Perhaps we shall scarcely come 
nearer to a helpful definition than if we say 
that the essence of drama is crisis." Thus 
speaks Mr. Archer. He then goes on to sort 
out his crises, dividing them into those which 
are undramatic, and those which are dra- 
matic. He establishes, without a doubt, that 
when a crisis is dramatic, it is drama. On 
the other hand when a crisis is undramatic, 
it is not drama. And unfortunately it ap- 
pears that the crises which are undramatic 
are just as numerous and just as intrinsically 
important as those which are dramatic. 
Crises ought not to behave in this inconsist- 
ent way, if they are to prove Mr. Archer's 
theory. He has rejected ''conflict" as the 
essence of drama. Yet I think if he carefully 
considers those crises which he calls dramatic 
he will find there is always a sense of con- 
flict, active or implied; and often a conflict 
of the human will. At least we may claim 
that some character is always, consciously or 
unconsciously "up against" some rather 
"tough proposition." Mr. Archer says, "A 
play is a more or less rapidly developing 
crisis in destiny or circumstance; and a dra- 
matic scene is a crisis within a crisis, clearly 
30 



furthering the ultimate event." This is very 
well put, and we need not dispute it. But 
might it not be paraphrased as "A play is 
a more or less rapidly developing conflict 
with destiny or circumstance, and a dramatic 
scene is a conscious or unconscious conflict 
within a scheme of larger conflict, clearly 
furthering the ultimate event"? At any rate 
a conflict is always dramatic, and a crisis, as 
Mr. Archer takes some trouble to show, is 
often undramatic. 

Perhaps I may be forgiven if I obtrude my 
own practice and experience for a moment. 
Mr. Archer's book is, as I have said, full of 
valuable hints and suggestions to young play- 
wrights. On page 27 he says "The author 
might often ask himself with advantage 
whether he could not strengthen his obstacle 
and so accentuate the struggle which forms 
the matter of his play." This is sound and 
admirable advice. In nearly all cases a play 
succeeds or fails with a popular audience, 
on the right or wrong conduct of its plot. 
Dialog, consistency of motive, truth and sin- 
cerity of character drawing, are weighty 
matters indeed, and of the chief importance 
when we are measuring the permanent value 
31 



of a play. But they are of little value, they 
scarcely come into the account at all, unless 
the plot is first carefully designed and estab- 
lished thruout. To build a play with good 
literature and truthful observation of char- 
acter, without first having a complete design, 
is as though an architect should take care to 
choose the best materials for his house; to 
see that his bricks and wood and iron are of 
the best; and then to take no heed that the 
elevation is right, that the kitchen and living 
rooms and staircases are practicable, that 
the house is a compact and convenient place 
to live in* 

Now the interest of the plot should be 
held to the end, and the main motives of the 
play should sustain the structure thruout. In 
devising the structure of a play, and in try- 
ing to make the story hold its interest to the 
fall of the curtain, I have constantly found 
it necessary to "strengthen the obstacle" as 
Mr. Archer suggests. This strengthening 
the obstacle has often taken the form of 
bringing two wills into conflict, or of increas- 
ing the apprehension of the coming will con- 
flict, or of suspending a final and decisive will 
conflict until the latest moment, meantime 
32 



emphasizing its imminency. Mr. Archer has 
noted that "a stand up fight between will and 
will is one of the intensest forms of drama." 
It is also one of the most effective on the 
stage, the surest to hold an audience. As a 
matter of experience I have found these 
scenes of will conflict the easiest to write; 
not indeed in the sense of calling for little 
effort, but in the sense of easily and surely 
arousing a swift, impetuous, unflagging en- 
ergy to deal with them. They generally 
write themselves — after long reflection and 
preparation. To say nothing of shorter 
scenes, I have three times written scenes of 
sustained conflict that fill the greater part of 
an act. Two of them were written at single 
sittings of two hours and three hours respec- 
tively — that is they were for the most part 
written at a far greater speed than I generally 
write matter requiring no thought. The 
other was written in one long sitting of about 
four hours, and a second sitting the next day 
of an hour. The two former were drama ; the 
latter was comedy. These instances have 
some bearing on Brunetiere's theory, and I 
hope this may excuse me for introducing per- 
sonal matter. 

33 



My own experience strongly disposes me 
to support Brunetiere's law. But in the in- 
stances of the 'Agamemnon,' 'CEdipus,' and 
'Ghosts' Mr. Archer has certainly disproved 
its universal application. 

I have shown that Mr. Archer's crises may 
comfortably lie down alongside Brunetiere's 
will conflicts. They are largely of the same 
order, and are in many respects identical. Is 
there no means of finally and completely 
"reconciling" these eminent critics? 

I have a great mind to discover a law of 
the drama of my own. It will be urged that 
it is unnecessary to add to the prevailing con- 
fusion which exists in the modern drama. 
And even if I "reconciled" Brunetiere and 
Mr. Archer, what about the other eminent 
critics and dramatists who have discovered 
that it is the first business of the playwright 
not to have a story or a plot, but to have 
"ideas," and a "mission," to sweep up social 
abuses, to debate endlessly upon social ques- 
tions and disputed points in sociology? 

It is a sad reflection that all the success- 
ful dramatists of the past have been as la- 
mentably ignorant of modern psychology and 
sociology as the early Ephesian converts were 

34 



of the Third Person in the Trinity. They 
had not so much as heard of so august an 
Abstraction. In consequence of a similar la- 
mentable ignorance of august Abstractions, 
like psychology and sociology and heredity, 
the successful dramatists of the past were 
obliged to construct their plays on the vicious 
first principle of telling an interesting story 
in a well framed concrete scheme; and by 
this means their plays have secured a perma- 
nent popularity, — which is a reprehensible 
thing to lovers of "ideas." 

But what modern playwright will take in- 
finite trouble to learn the difficult task of 
constructing a play, when he can gain the 
reputation of being not only a great dra- 
matist but also a profound thinker by the 
easy expedient of tossing a few psychologi- 
cal or sociological "ideas" about the stage 
with the careless freedom of a happy hay- 
maker? 

The present moment then is not auspici- 
ous for the enunciation of a law of the 
drama. It is very hard to obey laws; it is 
very easy to have "ideas." "Ideas" en- 
force no restrictions; they need not even be 
pursued; they need only to be dangled, and 
35 



aired, and left to float away. I hesitate then 
to unfold my law of the drama, because if it 
chances to be true it may be destructive to 
so many recent masterpieces of the harum 
scarum and Pentonville-omnibus schools of 
drama. 

On the other hand, \( it is a true law, there 
are enormous odds that it will be disregarded 
and neglected — for the time; in as much as 
it runs counter to the prevailing notions and 
fashions of the moment. So perhaps I may 
safely venture to discover a law of the drama 
of my own, in the security that it cannot do 
very much harm, as very few people will pay 
any attention to it. 

It must necessarily be a very broad and 
general law if it is not only to "reconcile" 
Brunetiere and Mr. Archer, but also to apply 
to any and every scene, and to any and every 
play that we can bring to test it. Bearing 
in mind then all the arguments and illustra- 
tions that have been used in this paper, and 
remembering that in the theater many things 
interest and amuse us which are not true 
drama, may we not formulate the universal 
law of drama as follows ? — 

Drama arises when any person or persons in a 

3 6 



play are consciously or unconsciously "up against" 
some antagonistic person, or circumstance, or for- 
tune. It is often more intense, when as in 'CEdipus,' 
the audience is aware of the obstacle, and the per- 
son himself, or persons on the stage are unaware 
of it. Drama arises thus, and continues when or 
till the person or persons are aware of the obstacle; 
it is sustained so long as we watch the reaction 
physical, mental, or spiritual, of the person or 
persons to the opposing person, or circumstance, or 
fortune. It relaxes as this reaction subsides, and 
ceases when the reaction is complete. This re- 
action of a person to an obstacle is most arresting 
and intense when the obstacle takes the form of 
another human will in almost balanced collision. 

It will be seen that this law overlaps and 
includes Brunetiere's will conflicts and Mr. 
Archer's crises; and that it "reconciles" them. 
It shows us what is drama, and what is not 
drama, in each of the scenes and plays that 
we have analyzed; it explains the failure of 
certain other scenes to interest us; it indicates 
those scenes which, not being dramatic in 
themselves, do yet hold our attention in the 
theater, because they are necessary links, 
supplying information about character or 
events; or because they are restful interludes 
between scenes of true drama. 

This law can I think, be applied to 
any play, or to any scene of any play, 
37 



ancient or modern, and made the test of its 
dramatic value. If in asserting its univer- 
sality I am claiming too much for it, I shall 
be glad to be confronted with instances of 
plays or scenes where it does not apply. I 
will then withdraw it, or widen it, or adopt 
any other law that can be shown to have a 
universal application. Perhaps some amus- 
ing scenes in farce may be found to be large- 
ly exempt from its sway ; but farce, by its very 
name being "stuffing," that is "padding," does 
not pretend to be drama. But, this possible 
exception granted, I think the law I have 
formulated will be found to be a veritable 
universal law, which will hold good always 
and everywhere, and can be equally used as a 
touchstone to all scenes and to all plays; to 
tragedy, drama, comedy or farce. 

As I have stated the law it appears to be 
somewhat lengthy and involved. But it can 
scarcely be shortened or simplified if it is to 
be explicit, and if it is to cover the whole 
area of drama. If however Mr. Archer 
would allow us to add "suspense" to "crisis" 
as a chief element of drama, then the form- 
ula "suspense, crisis — suspense, crisis — 
suspense, crisis," almost renders a succinct 
38 



statement of the law of drama. And if we 
do not insist upon the conscious exertion of 
the human will, which tho of frequent ex- 
hibition in drama, is not omnipresent and 
omnipotent as Brunetiere supposes — if we 
enlarge Brunetiere's law into "conflict im- 
pending, conflict rajging — conflict impending, 
conflict raging — conflict impending, con- 
flict raging — ", then again we get a short 
formula which almost renders a succinct 
statement of the law of drama. And in 
most instances the general outline of the 
action of the same successful play would be 
equally well described as a succession of sus- 
penses and crises, or as a succession of con- 
flicts impending and conflicts raging, carried 
thru ascending and accelerated climaxes 
from the beginning to the end of a connected 
scheme. Thus it appears that our law in- 
cludes and "reconciles" Brunetiere's will con- 
flicts with Mr. Archer's crises, and Mr. 
Archer, instead of being opposed to Brune- 
tiere as he imagines, is in substantial agree- 
ment with him — that is when a playwright is 
allowed to expand and expound and interpret 
their respective theories, and to find places 
for them in a law which is large enough to 
39 



accommodate them both. I kindle with jus- 
tifiable pride to find that I have "reconciled" 
these eminent critics. 

Mr. Archer in dismissing Brunetiere's 
theory as inadmissible says, "For a sufficient 
account of the matter we need go no further 
than the simple psychological observation 
that human nature loves a fight, whether it 
be with clubs, or with swords, with tongues 
or with brains." ('Playmaking' p. 26.) But 
this psychological observation gives us an 
insight into the permanent relation of the 
drama to life. Reduced to its simplest ele- 
ments life itself is mainly a fight; it is the 
commonest simile in all literature. Reduced 
to its simplest elements, drama is mainly the 
representation of a fight, a conflict of some 
sort. War in some form, military, indus- 
trial, social or spiritual is the law of our 
being; it is the necessary lever of all human 
advance. Death is peace, as every tomb- 
stone shows. Life is war — of some kind. 
Thus we see the reason that successful 
drama is so largely made up of con- 
flict, conscious or unconscious. It is then 
fundamentally like life; fundamentally, it is 
life. For when there is what Brunetiere calls 
40 



an obstacle, even if the persons on the stage 
are unaware of it, we, the spectators, know 
there is a vital conflict, actual or imminent, 
and we set ourselves to watch its develop- 
ment. It is not the passivity of Agamem- 
non, of CEdipus, or of Oswald, which gives 
us the sense of drama. It is their impending 
reaction to the obstacle that rouses our inter- 
est. This response may be bodily, mental 
or spiritual; but it is an opposition, a reaction 
if not of the will, yet a reaction of the man's 
nature or character; a kind of conflict; and 
therefore it is drama. 

We will now inquire into the relations of 
drama to fiction, — of the play to the novel. 
Dramatic criticism is perpetually recurring to 
this matter ; and we may profitably consider it 
here, especially as Brunetiere gives consider- 
able space to it in his essay. Mr. Archer 
also has a short analysis of the differentia- 
tion of the play from the novel. And " 'fore 
God, they are both in a tale." They both 
mark an antithesis between drama and fiction, 
between the play and the novel. Mr. Archer 
does not press this point so strongly as Brun- 
etiere. Mr. Archer says ('Playmaking,' p. 
29) — "The drama may be called the art of 
41 



crises, as fiction is the art of gradual devel- 
opments. It is the slowness of its processes 
which differentiates the typical novel from 
the typical play. If the novelist does not 
take advantage of the facilities offered by his 
form for portraying gradual change whether 
in the way of growth or decay, he renounces 
his own birthright to trespass on the domain 
of the dramatist." 

Thus again speaks Mr. Archer. But 
surely crises, and crises of the order which 
Mr. Archer has noted as dramatic, do occur 
with frequency in many standard novels, and 
are not prevented from being drama, because 
the novelist may have also taken advantage 
of the facilities offered by his form, for por- 
traying gradual change. 

Take the average detective novel. The 
author may indeed, even in this comparative- 
ly low type of fiction, "take advantage of the 
facilities offered by his form for portraying 
gradual changes" that lead up to a crisis. 
But would he "renounce his birthright" if, 
because they are dramatic, he omitted the 
crises which indeed make the chief interest 
and attraction of his novel? Why is he less 
a novelist because he introduces dramatic 



crises into his story, and uses them with vir- 
tually the same effect that a dramatist uses 
them in a play? 

Go a step higher. Have Victor Hugo and 
the elder Dumas renounced their birthrights 
as novelists because their stories are an al- 
most constant succession of dramatic crises 
and scenes and events? When we speak 
of Dickens and Balzac do the scenes which 
spring up in our memory indicate that a nov- 
elist is pursuing his true vocation only when 
he avoids all that is dramatic? Would all 
these writers have been greater masters of 
fiction if they had omitted these scenes, or if 
they had studiously treated them in the least 
dramatic way possible? Would they not 
have immeasurably lessened the effect of 
their stories, and indeed largely renounced 
their birthright as novelists? Is Thackeray 
renouncing his birthright as a novelist in the 
scene of Rawdon Crawley's return and the 
discovery of Lord Steyne and Becky? — a 
scene which can almost be bodily transferred 
to the stage? Is Thomas Hardy renouncing 
his birthright as a novelist in the memorable 
scene of the confession in 'Tess' ? Is he not 
indeed there claiming his birthright, not only 
43 



as a novelist, but also, as in so many other 
of his vividly dramatic scenes — is he not, im- 
plicitly claiming his birthright as a great po- 
tential dramatist, lost to the English stage 
because he has never learnt the actual busi- 
ness of the theater? A hundred times be it 
proclaimed that one main reason that we 
have no great English national drama is that 
neither our creative men of letters, nor our 
critical men of letters, are men of the theater. 

Brunetiere asserts even more strongly 
than Mr. Archer that there is a direct antag- 
onism between the art of drama and the art 
of fiction — "The drama and the novel are 
not the same thing; or rather each is the 
reverse of the other." And he goes on to 
compare 'Gil Bias' with the 'Marriage of Fi- 
garo.' "Gil Bias is subject to circumstances; 
he does not try to dominate them. He does 
not act; he is acted upon," says Brunetiere. 
But because a certain character in a particular 
novel is passive and does not exercise his 
will, is no reason that another character in 
another novel should not have a determined 
will, and struggle consciously with adverse 
circumstances and persons. 

Brunetiere sums up, "The novel is there- 
44 



fore the contrary of the drama." This dic- 
tum will not hold for a moment, in presence 
of the instances I have quoted of tremendous 
dramatic scenes that have largely contributed 
to the reputations of great novelists. In- 
stances might be indefinitely multiplied. Even 
in the novelist who often seems to flout the 
drama, and who always seems to flout the 
theater, whose methods seem to be intention- 
ally anti-theatrical, if not anti-dramatic — 
even in Anatole France, there is much essen- 
tial drama, witness the scenes in 'Histoire 
Comique'; and the memorable scene where 
M. Bergeret discovers his wife and his favor- 
ite pupil, with its superb portrayal of the as- 
tonishingly truthful sequences and reactions 
in the mind and soul of M. Bergeret. It is 
there we get essential drama. 

The fundamental antagonism which 
Brunetiere and Mr. Archer have discovered 
between drama and fiction does not exist. 
Nearly all the great novelists have gained 
much reputation by writing scenes which 
have the true marks of drama; which ex- 
hibit the human will in action and in conflict; 
which portray crises of the order which Mr. 
Archer calls dramatic; which could easily be 
45 



transformed into a scene of a play; and 
which in some instances could be put on the 
stage almost as they appear in the novel. So 
far as these scenes are written as narrative 
or description they are essential drama, 
which only needs to be put into dialog to be- 
come actual drama. So far as they are 
written in dialog these are already actual 
drama — tho in nearly all instances they are 
not organically related to other dramatic 
scenes so as to form a concrete scheme of 
action, that is to say, a play. 

What then is the true relation of drama 
to fiction, of the play to the novel? Where- 
in, and to what extent, and over what terri- 
tory of human life and experience are they 
differentiated? 

Brunetiere says "The drama and the novel 
are not the same thing." This is largely 
true. "The novel is the contrary of the 
drama." This is quite false. If the law 
of drama that I have formulated above is 
valid and universal, it is apparent that 
whenever and wherever a scene or situation 
occurs that fulfils one of the obligations 
of the law, there we get essential drama. 
And it matters not where we find such a 
46 



scene or situation; whether in a play, or 
in the pages of a novel, or in history, or 
in a newspaper, or in real life. It is 
true essential drama; the same as gold is 
gold whether it be found in minute scat- 
tered atoms in the waters of the sea; or 
in rather more tangible quantities in a 
Welsh mountain; or in visible specks in 
quartz, or in a river-bed; or palpable and 
compact in a nugget; or minted and stamped 
for circulation in a sovereign. "The drama 
and the novel are not the same thing." No, 
but the novel approaches the play, and tends 
to contain a play or a number of plays ac- 
cording to the force and number of its dra- 
matic scenes, and according as these scenes 
can be made to fall into an organic connected 
sequence, or into more than one organic con- 
nected sequences. 

It is strange that neither Brunetiere nor 
Mr. Archer has perceived that the true rela- 
tion of the novel to the play, of the epic to 
drama, is finely exposed in Aristotle's 
'Poetics' (xxiii and xxiv.) The epic, which 
is roughly the novel, differs, says Aristotle, 
from the drama on the scale on which it is 
constructed. The epic has a great capacity 
47 



for enlarging its dimensions, and we can see 
the reason. In the drama we cannot imitate 
several actions carried on at one and the 
same time; we must confine ourselves to the 
action on the stage and the part taken by 
the players. Aristotle points out that an 
epic may supply materials for the subjects 
of many tragedies. And he says, in direct 
contradiction to Brunetiere and Mr. Archer, 
that the plot of a work in narrative ought 
manifestly to be constructed on dramatic 
principles. It should have a beginning, a 
middle and an end. The parts, with the 
exception of song and scenery, are the same. 
Thus, so far from finding that fiction and the 
drama are essentially different, Aristotle 
maintains that they are fundamentally the 
same. 

Professor Butcher in commenting on 
Aristotle says ('Aristotle's Theory of Poetry 
and Fine Art,' p. 280) : "The general law 
of unity laid down in the 'Poetics' for an 
epic is almost the same as for the drama, 
but the drama forms a more compact and 
serried whole. Its events are in more di- 
rect relation with the development of char- 
acter; its incidents are never incidents and 
48 _ 



nothing more." This is a very important 
statement for a young playwright to remem- 
ber. It implies the rigorous economy of 
dramatic construction; the necessity of in- 
troducing no incident that is not a vital part 
of the main action, and that does not ad- 
vance the main action; the necessity of intro- 
ducing no incident that does not exhibit, and, 
if possible, develope character, in addition to 
being itself an action strictly within and 
strictly related to the main action. Nothing 
is good in a play that is not good in relation 
to the whole of it. 

Professor Butcher proceeds, u The se- 
quence of parts in a play is more inevitable 
— morally more inevitable — than in a story 
where the external facts and events have an 
independent value of their own. . . . 
The epic being of wider compass, can admit 
many episodes, which serve to fill in the 
pauses of the action or diversify the interest. 
They give embellishment and variety to the 
narrative. The epic moreover advances 
slowly, retarding incidents by which the 
denouement is delayed. Further, owing to 
the number of its minor actions, the epic, 
while keeping its essential unity contains the 
49 



plots of many tragedies, whereas the drama 
rejects this multiplicity of incidents; it is of 
closer tissue, pressing forward to an end 
which controls its entire structure. . . . 
The action then of the drama is concen- 
trated, while that of the epic is large and 
manifold. . . The epic is a story of the 
past; the drama a representation in the pre- 
ent. . . . the epic storyteller can take 
his time. . . " 

Taken altogether this makes it clear that 
the raw stuff of fiction and the raw stuff of 
drama are the same; and further that even 
the methods of drama and the methods of 
fiction are to some extent the same ; the chief 
difference being that the methods of fiction 
are slower, looser, more free, more unre- 
strained. Fiction can do many more things 
than the drama, but it cannot strike so hard 
and instantly. So instead of saying with 
Brunetiere, u The novel and the drama are 
exactly opposite, the one to the other, 
the novel is the contrary to the drama," we 
should say "Fiction everywhere overlaps the 
drama and contains the drama. Drama is one 
species of fiction; drama does not essen- 
tially differ from fiction; it is a highly spe- 

50 



cialized, highly organic, highly concentrated, 
infinitely difficult form of fiction." But the 
contrast which Brunetiere has noted between 
the drama and certain forms of fiction is a 
very suggestive one. It is not, as he sup- 
poses, the contrast between the drama on one 
hand and fiction on the other. The contrast 
which Brunetiere establishes is between that 
fiction which is relatively undramatic, or 
which avoids the exhibition of whatever es- 
sential drama it contains — between these 
kinds of fiction on the one hand, and the 
drama and dramatic fiction on the other. 
The mere story of 'Gil Bias' contains much 
material of drama. The delightful scenes 
wherein Gil Bias figures as a doctor would 
almost of themselves make a comedy — if 
there were a Moliere to fuse and organize 
them. Again there is much essential drama 
in 'Madame Bovary' ; but Flaubert gives it to 
us in narrative and description. A drama- 
tist could extract a play from 'Madame Bo- 
vary,' but he would necessarily omit many 
of the most telling episodes; and he would 
necessarily abdicate the beauties and delica- 
cies of Flaubert's style. He could not 
leave with us the same general impres- 
5* 



sion that Flaubert leaves. If he were a 
very great dramatist he might give us an im- 
pression as striking and vivid as Flaubert, 
but it would be a different impression. Nor 
could he give us, except in a large rough sug- 
gestive way, the Madame Bovary of Flau- 
bert. Madame Bovary on the stage would 
shift and change according to the personal- 
ity, the complexion, the manner, the gesture, 
the vitality, the methods and technical train- 
ing, and on certain nights, according to the 
present state of the temper and digestion, of 
the different actresses who played the part. 
But there is much essential drama in the story 
of Madame Bovary. 

From all this it appears that the novelist 
having not only a much wider domain than 
the dramatist, having indeed an unlimited 
domain; being also comparatively unfettered 
in that domain, whereas the dramatist in his 
much narrower compass is fettered by the 
manifold chains of a rigid law; a set of pres- 
ent day conventions ; and the eternal necessity 
of being interpreted by actual human beings 
who may be ill-adapted to embody his crea- 
tions, and in modern realistic drama are al- 
ways, more or less physically unsuited to their 
52 



parts — from all this, it appears that the art 
of a novelist is much easier to practise, and 
therein to win a lasting literary reputation 
than the art of the dramatist. Indeed Arch- 
ibald Spofforth, in his essay on the 'Difficul- 
ties and Discouragements of the Dramatis,' 
computes that granted the same natural intel- 
lectual gifts, a literary reputation may be won 
as a novelist at exactly one twenty-seventh 
cost of the pains and energy that it takes to 
win a literary reputation as a dramatist. One 
gets a little tired of these elaborate mathe- 
matical calculations of Spofforth, which are 
always difficult for a plain simple man to 
follow. And in this case I cannot but think 
he has overlooked some important factor, 
and consequently has outrageously overstated 
his case. Speaking from personal experi- 
ence, I should say that Spofforth would have 
been nearer the truth if he had said that a 
literary reputation may be made as a novelist 
at a tenth of the expenditure of pains and 
energy that it takes to make a kindred repu- 
tation as a dramatist. This of course applies 
to England only. They have a different 
scale of judgments and rewards in France; 
and also a different receptivity for the drama. 
53 



In America the matter is, I believe, in abey- 
ance, pending developments of the national 
grammar, language, and literature. 

But though Brunetiere may be in error in 
saying that the drama and fiction are exactly 
opposite and contrary to each other, he is 
again fruitful and suggestive, in saying that 
"the quality of will measures and determines, 
in its turn, the dramatic value of each work 
in its species." This perhaps may be ac- 
cepted as generally sound, if fiction and 
drama are equally included and are equally 
judged by the rule. 

Again, if Brunetiere is not absolutely right, 
he seems to be tracking a general tendency 
when he says, "As a matter of fact it is 
always at the exact moment of its national 
existence, when the will of a great people is 
exalted, so to speak within itself, that we 
see dramatic art reach also the highest point 
of its development, and produce its master- 
pieces." 

There is probably some general truth in 
this, but it is to be noted that alongside the 
Elizabethan drama, was a great manifesta- 
tion of general literary activity, which indeed 
did not take the form of fiction, but was 
54 



even farther removed from the drama. The 
great Elizabethan writers outside the drama . 
may be claimed equally with the dramatists 
to be the evidence and product of a strong 
national will and spirit in that age. But 
Bacon, Spenser, Sidney, Hooker, North, 
Milton, Urquhart (if these two latter may 
be taken as late shoots from the same vig- 
orous root) together with all the Eliza- 
bethan lyrists — these are generally far away 
from the drama. 

Moreover there was a vigorous stiffening 
of the national will after the revolution of 
1688 and under Queen Anne, which certainly 
did not generate the comedies of the period, 
but which was connected with other forms 
of literature outside the drama, and which 
almost certainly generated the first greatf 
English novelist — Defoe. It is quite true 
that, as Brunetiere says, "It is extremely 
rare that a great development of the novel is 
contemporary with a great development of 
the theater." Curiously enough he goes on 
to disprove his own contention that the 
drama and fiction are the contrary of each 
other. For calling in a well known law of 
biology, he says that the reason that the 
55 



drama and the novel are rarely at a high 
level at the same time in the same country 
is "because in literature as in nature, the 
competition is always keenest between neigh- 
boring species and the soil is rarely rich 
enough for two rival varieties to prosper, 
develop, and multiply in peace." 

This is a very apt and correct simile, but 
it affirms the very close relationship between 
fiction and the drama. In his next sen- 
tence he rather inconsistently reverts to his 
error by saying "But it is also because, being, 
as we have seen, the contrary of each other, 
drama and novel do not answer to the same 
conception of life." If the biological simile 
is true, and gives the reason that the drama 
and fiction rarely flourish together inasmuch 
they are allied varieties of the same stock, 
why bring in another reason which lamely 
affirms the contrary and confuses the argu- 
ment? 

The truth seems to be that an outburst of 
national drama may be one of the effects, or 
perhaps merely one of the symptoms, of a 
general rally of the national energies or will. 
And this general rally of the national ener- 
gies may show itself in countless other ways 
56 



apart from the drama. But it is true, as 
Brunetiere says, that an outburst of national 
drama is generally or always coincident with, 
or sequent to a national stir of energy or 
will. A nation with a strong will is likely 
to find itself involved in real and mimic 
drama, as a man with a strong will is likely 
to encounter dramatic adventures. 

But if the drama and fiction are virtually 
the same, this flood of national energy may 
possibly take the broad loitering channels of 
fiction, though it is more likely to take the 
deeply cut precipitous gorges of drama. If 
the drama and fiction are fundamentally the 
same, they cannot answer to any fundament- 
ally different conception of life, as Brunetiere 
contends that they do. What difference there 
is between them will be a difference of de- 
gree, and not a difference of kind. Drama 
is drama whether it is found in a play or in 
a novel. Indeed, there is often a stronger 
pulse of drama in some novels and in some 
scenes of novels, than there is in many plays. 
Brunetiere fails to establish any radical 
antithesis between fiction and the drama. 
There is no such antithesis. 

And now it occurs to me that in my anx- 
57 



iety to "reconcile" Brunetiere and Mr. 
Archer I have heedlessly embroiled them 
both with Aristotle. For it is certain that 
this other eminent critic very strongly, if 
indirectly, affirms the essential sameness of 
fiction and the drama, even the essential 
sameness of their primary law of construc- 
tion. That is he affirms the general necessity 
of a rigid form, and the existence of a rigid 
law, in both arts. 

Indirectly I think Aristotle lends confirma- 
tion to the law of the drama that I have 
formulated above. But even with the back- 
ing of Aristotle, I will yet in the interests 
of the drama, ask other eminent critics to 
set to work to refute me if they can, and to 
discover the existence of a veritable and uni- 
versal law of drama which shall equally 
discomfit Brunetiere, Archer and myself — 
and even Aristotle. There is a splendid 
reputation as a dramatic critic to be made in 
this direction. 

It will be urged that many successful plays 
do not conform, or only very partially con- 
form to the law I have laid down. That is 
quite true. It will be further urged, and 
with even greater wealth of instance, that 
58 



our enjoyment of certain plays is by no 
means proportionate to their conformation to 
the law. That again is quite true. And I 
will not be so churlish as to forbid anyone to 
enjoy himself in the theater, from a mere 
ignorance of the laws of the drama. It is 
far better to be amused by wrong methods 
than bored by right ones. But there are dif- 
ferent levels of amusement. And if it is 
better to be amused by wrong methods on a 
low level than to be bored by right methods 
on a high level, how much better still it is to 
be amused by right methods on a high level 
than to be bored by wrong methods on a low 
level. 

Finally, it must again be insisted that many 
things amuse us in the theater which are not 
drama, and have nothing to do with drama. 
We love to see pretty faces ; we love legs and 
tomfoolery; we love to hear our own opin- 
ions bruited; we love to have our own pre- 
judices flattered; we love to be tickled with 
sensual suggestions; we love to be daubed 
with the treacle of sentiment; we love to be 
educated in social science; we love to gloat 
in vicarious morality; we love to save our 
souls. And according as our tastes run in 
59 



one or in several of these directions we are 
gratified, and we carry our gratification to the 
account of the play. 

During the last few years the lower forms 
of the theatrical entertainment have more 
and more provided attraction that is alto- 
gether apart from drama. They have tended 
to become mere orgies of slang, frivolity, 
sensuality, banality and imbecility. Their 
very titles stink with witless vulgarity. And 
their attraction is growing more and more 
potent with the great public. 

May not their growing attraction be partly 
due to the fact that the higher forms of 
theatrical entertainment have also, in quite 
another way, strayed far away from the 
drama, and have become largely a hubbub 
of confused "ideas," and a discordant chorus 
of social reforms? Will not many of the 
pieces, which have recently been hailed as 
masterpieces because they disdained to be 
plays — will they not fail to retain a perma- 
nent hold of the stage because they have 
neglected to conform to any intelligible law? 
Is it not apparent that they have already 
failed with the great body of present day 
playgoers — the only tribunal to which any 
60 



playwright can or ought to appeal in the first 
instance? No dramatist has ever written for 
posterity. 

At such a juncture it may not be inoppor- 
tune to recall the fact that every art has its 
laws, and that the laws of the drama are 
more rigid than those of any other art. Laws 
may indeed be defied, and successfully de- 
fied, for a time. But as Brunetiere has 
pointed out, they remain. And they avenge 
themselves in the end. 

There are two very good old-fashioned 
laws which are plainly laid down in the 
seventh and eighth commandments. We 
see them successfully defied every day. And 
it is to be sorrowfully noted that the people 
who successfully defy them are often the 
most amiable and charming people that we 
meet. But there is always some danger of 
the divorce court for those who defy the 
former of them, and some danger of the jail 
for those who defy the latter. Not very 
much danger perhaps, but every now and 
then we get a rude admonition that the laws 
remain. Similarly there are many enjoyable 
plays that successfully defy the laws of 
61 



drama — for a time. But they get found 
out in the end. 
The law remains. 

Henry Arthur Jones. 

(April, 19 14.) 



THE LAW OF THE DRAMA 



THE LAW OF THE DRAMA 

If some "First-Nighter" or some "Old 
Playgoer" who was not born when our ac- 
quaintance began, should be surprised, my 
dear Noel, to see me writing this preface 
for your 'Annales du Theatre et de la 
Musique,' certainly no one is better qualified 
than you to answer him, and tell him how 
great has been my love for the theater. That 
was about 1867 — more than twenty-five 
years ago ; and we were not rich. But some- 
how or other we had managed to make the 
acquaintance of several leaders of the claque, 
and for twenty-five cents — sometimes for ten, 
on repertory nights — we bought the right to 
sit in the pit of the Comedie-Frangaise — and 
to applaud as little as we chose. The 
Gymnase and the Vaudeville where there was 
no pit, cost us more. Were those, as the 
saying is, the "good old days"? I will not 
answer for you, but for my part, I am not 
one of those who regret their youth; and if 
ever I do, I shall have greatly changed. 
And yet we had our happy moments, parti- 
65 



cularly after the theater, along the deserted 
quays, or the next day, under the trees in the 
Luxembourg, when we would discuss which 
was the better in the 'Manage de Figaro,' 
Got with his careful, intelligent, quiet render- 
ing, or the broader, less studied, more spon- 
taneous rendering of Coquelin, who since 
. . . but at that time he was the spoiled 
child of the House of Moliere. Were you 
not translating Goethe's plays then? And 
for a change, you would go to see 'King 
Lear' at the Odeon. . . . These mem- 
ories are becoming a little confused to my 
mind. But if I remember rightly, we pre- 
ferred above all the plays of Musset: the 
'Caprices de Marianne,' the 'Chandelier,' 
'On ne badine pas avec l'amour,' 'II ne faut 
jurer de rien' . . . and, to be frank, I 
care less much less about him today, but I 
am not ashamed of having liked him. And 
how many performances, by how many 
actors, have we seen of 'Horace' and 'Bri- 
tanicus,' 'Esther' and 'Athalie,' 'Tartuffe' 
and the 'Misanthrope,' the 'Barbier de Se- 
ville,' in which no one has equalled Bressant, 
and the 'Manage de Figaro,' in which no one 
has replaced Leroux. I like to think that we 
66 



thus contributed our little share to bring the 
classics back to their place of honor. For 
they are played more often now than then. 
Didn't you and I wait until we were quite 
grown-up to see 'Bajazet,' for example, or 
'Berenice'? We were in despair. 

If now I have almost ceased to attend the 
theater, if I only follow it from afar, it is 
my own fault, and mine alone. What would 
you have? The fifteen lectures which I de- 
livered at the Odeon, nearly three years ago, 
on the Evolution du Theatre Frangais' left 
me sated, saturated, wearied with the sub- 
ject, — gorged, if I may say so. But they 
were not without their usefulness for me; 
and, between ourselves, if some of my audit- 
ors were kind enough to like them, it was 
I who profited the most. Instead of apply- 
ing myself, confining myself, as I had done 
before, and as we all do, to the examination 
of 'Polyeucte' or of 'Andromaque' and fol- 
lowing my personal taste or the demand of 
the moment, I had to try to grasp the essence 
and the connection of the works in the his- 
tory of our stage, and to deduce from them, 
if I could, the theory, or, to speak more 
modestly, a theory of dramatic action. And 
67 



so, when you invited me this year to write 
the Preface for your interesting 'Annales' I 
accepted at once. The theory, uncertain and 
still vague in my lectures, had taken definite 
form. It had become broader, it seems to 
me, by becoming more simple. A child could 
understand it. And do not tell me that you 
are tempted to distrust it, precisely because 
of this simplicity ! On the contrary, my dear 
friend, it is not art, science, nor life that are 
complex, it is the ideas that we form for our- 
selves in regard to them. Whoever grasps 
a principle, grasps all its applications. But 
the very diversity, multiplicity, perversity, 
and apparent contradiction of these applica- 
tions, prevent him from seeing the principle. 
Will any argument, however ingenious, alter 
the fact that all poetry is either lyric, epic, or 
dramatic? Certainly not. And if the 'Cid,' 
if Thedre,' if 'Tartuffe,' if the 'Legataire 
Universel,' if the 'Barbier de Seville/ if the 
'Camaraderie,' if the 'Demi-monde,' if 'Celi- 
mare le Bien-Aime' are dramatic, does it not 
follow that all these works, so different, must 
nevertheless have not merely a few points of 
contact or vague resemblance, but an essen- 
tial characteristic in common? What is this 
68 



characteristic? That is what I shall try to 
explain. 

Observe, if you please, that I ask only one 
— no more — and that I leave the dramatist 
complete freedom in development. That is 
where I depart from the old school of criti- 
cism, that believed in the mysterious power 
of "Rules" in their inspiring virtues; and 
consequently we see the old-school critics 
struggling and striving, exercising all their 
ingenuity to invent additional Rules; read, 
for example, the 'Cours de Litterature Ana- 
lytique' by Nepomucene Lemercier. But the 
truth is that there are no Rules in that 
sense; there never will be. There are only 
conventions, which are necessarily variable, 
since their only object is to fulfil the essential 
aim of the dramatic work, and the means of 
accomplishing this vary with the piece, the 
time, and the man. Must we, like Corneille, 
regularly subordinate character to situation; 
invent, construct, the situations first, and 
then, if I may so express it, put the characters 
inside? We may do so, certainly, since he 
did it, in the 'Cid' and in 'Horace,' in Toly- 
eucte' and in 'Rodogune.' Or shall we, like 
Racine, subordinate situation to character, 
69 



find the characters first, study them, master 
them, and then seek the situations which will 
best bring out their different aspects? We 
may do so, and that is what he did, as you 
know, in 'Andromaque,' in 'Britanicus,' in 
'Bajazet,' in 'Phedre.' There is an exam- 
ple, then, of a Rule which may be violated, 
and Racine's dramaturgy is none the less 
dramatic for being the opposite of Cor- 
neille's dramaturgy. Take another Rule. 
Shall we oblige the dramatic author to ob- 
serve the Three Unities ? I reply that he will 
not be hampered by them, if he can choose, 
like Racine, subjects which properly or neces- 
sarily adjust themselves of their own accord, 
so to speak, to the rule: 'Berenice,' 'Iphi- 
genie,' 'Esther' . . . But if he chooses, 
like Shakspere, subjects which are checked 
by it in their free development, or diverted 
merely, we will relieve him of the Rule: 
and 'Othello,' 'Macbeth,' 'Hamlet,' will still 
be drama. This is another example of a 
Rule which can be turned in various ways. 
Or again, shall we mingle tragic and comic, 
tears and laughter, terror and joy, the su- 
blime and the grotesque, Ariel and Caliban, 
Bottom and Titania, Triboulet and Francois 
70 



I, Don Guritan and Ruy Bias? Shakspere 
and Hugo have done it, but Euripides and 
Sophocles seems to have carefully avoided 
it; and who will deny that they were both 
right? We do not feel the need of a comic 
element to enliven or vary the severe beauty 
of 'CEdipus at Colonus,' but we should cer- 
tainly be sorry to have King Lear deprived 
of his Fool. It is unnecessary to continue. 
Evidently, all these alleged Rules affect or 
express only the most superficial characteris- 
tics of the drama. Not only are they not 
mysterious, they are not in the least pro- 
found. Whether we observe them or not, 
drama is drama with them or without them. 
They are only devices which may at any time 
give place to others. It all depends on the 
subject, the author, and the public. This is 
the point to add that there is something 
which does not depend on them. 

To convince ourselves of that fact, let us 
examine more carefully two or three works 
whose dramatic value is universally recog- 
nized, and let us take them from species as 
different as the *Cid,' the 'Ecole des femmes,' 
and 'Celimare le Bien Aime.' Chimene wants 
to avenge her father; and the question is 
7* 



how she will succeed. Arnolphe wants to 
marry Agnes, whose stupidity will guaran- 
tee her fidelity; and the question is whether 
he will succeed. Celimare wants to get rid 
of the widowers of his former mistresses; 
and the question is what means he will em- 
ploy. But Celimare is hampered in the exe- 
cution is his will by his fear of the vengeance 
of his friends. Arnolphe is disturbed in the 
execution of his will by the young madcap 
Horace, who arouses love, and with love a 
will, in Agnes' heart. Chimene is betrayed 
in the execution of her will by the love which 
she feels for Rodrigue. On the other hand, 
Chimene's will is checked and broken by the 
insurmountable obstacle which she encoun- 
ters in a will superior to her own. Arnolphe, 
who is far from being a fool, sees all the 
plans of his will tricked by the conspiracy of 
youth and love. And Celimare, by the 
power of his will, triumphs over the widow- 
ers of his mistresses. Nothing would be 
easier than to multiply examples. Take the 
'Tour de Nesles,' the 'Demi-monde,' and the 
'Chapeau de Paille d'ltalie.' Fadinard 
wants to obtain a Leghorn hat to replace that 
of Mme. Beauperthuis; and the whole farce 
72 



consists in the remarkable character of the 
means which he employs. Suzanne d'Ange 
wants to marry M. de Nanjac; and the 
whole drama consists only in the means which 
she formulates. Buridan wants to exploit 
the monstrous secret which exists between 
him and Marguerite de Bourgogne; and the 
whole melodrama consists only of the succes- 
sion of the means which he invents. Buri- 
dan's will is opposed in its work by Mar- 
guerite's pride. Suzanne's will is countered 
by that of Olivier de Jalin. And Fadinard's 
will becomes entangled in the means which 
he seeks to satisfy it. But chance, more pow- 
erful than Fadinard's will, brings success at 
the moment when he least expects it. Oli- 
vier's will wins out over Suzanne's. And by 
the exercise of their will, Marguerite and 
Buridan fall into the trap set by their own 
will. Is it not easy now to draw the con- 
clusion? In drama or farce, what we ask 
of the theater, is the spectacle of a will 
striving towards a goal, and conscious of the 
means which it employs. 

This essential characteristic of dramatic 
composition distinguishes it, in the first 
place, from lyric composition, which I shall 
73 



not discuss, in order not to complicate the 
question unnecessarily, and from the com- 
position of the novel, with which, especially 
in our day, it has so often been confused. 
u Who is not for us is against us," — you know 
the phrase. The drama and the novel are 
not the same thing; or rather, each is ex- 
actly the opposite of the other. Read 'Gil 
Bias' again, or go again to see the 'Manage 
de Figaro.' The setting and the character 
are the same. Beaumarchais made a trip to 
Spain, but Lesage's novel was none the less 
his principal model. I have shown else- 
where that we find in the monolog of 
Figaro whole sentences from 'Gil Bias.' 
Only, whereas nothing happens to Gil Bias 
that he has actually willed, it is on the con- 
trary Figaro's will that conducts the plot of 
his marriage. Let us pursue this point of 
comparison. 

Gil Bias, like everybody else, wants to live, 
and if possible to live agreeably. That is 
not what we call having a will. But Figaro 
wants a certain definite thing, which is to 
prevent Count Almaviva from exercising on 
Suzanne the seigneurial privilege. He finally 
succeeds, — and I grant, since the statement 

74 



has been made, that it is not exactly thru the 
means which he had chosen, most of which 
turn against him; but nevertheless he has 
constantly willed what he willed. He had 
not ceased to devise means of attaining it, 
and when these means have failed, he has 
not ceased to invent new ones. That is 
what may be called will, to set up a goal, and 
to direct everything toward it, to strive to 
bring everything into line with it. Gil Bias 
really has no goal. Highway robber, doc- 
tor's assistant, servant to a canon, to an 
actress, or to a nobleman, all the positions 
which he occupies one after another, come 
to him from fortune or chance. He has no 
plan, because he has no particular or definite 
aim. He is subject to circumstances; he does 
not try to dominate them. He does not act; 
he is acted upon. Is not the difference evi- 
dent? The proper aim of the novel, as of 
the epic— of which it is only a secondary and 
derived form, what the naturalists call a 
sub-species or a variety — the aim of the 
'Odyssey,' as of 'Gil Bias,' of the 'Knights 
of the Round Table,' as of 'Madame Bo- 
vary,' is to give us a picture of the influence 
which is exercised upon us by all that is 
75 



outside of ourselves. The novel is there- 
fore the contrary of the drama; and if I 
have successfully set forth this opposition, 
do you not see the consequences which re- 
sult from it? 

It is thus that one can distinguish action 
from motion or agitation; and that is cer- 
tainly worth while. Is it action to move 
about? Certainly not, and there is no true 
action except that of a will conscious of it- 
self, conscious, as I was saying, of the means 
which it employs for its fulfillment, one which 
adapts them to its goal, and all other forms 
of action are only imitations, counterfeits, or 
parodies. The material or the subject of a 
novel or of a play may therefore be the 
same at bottom; but they become drama or 
novel only by the manner in which they are 
treated; and the manner is not merely dif- 
ferent, it is opposite. One will never be 
able, therefore, to transfer to the stage any 
novels except those which are already 
dramatic; and note well that they are dra- 
matic only to the extent to which their heroes 
are truly the architects of their destiny. It 
follows that one could make a novel of the 
'Mariage de Figaro,' but one will never 
76 



make a drama or a comedy of 'Gil Bias.' 
One might make a novel of Corneille's 
'Rodogune,' one will never make a drama of 
Rousseau's 'Heloise.' The general law of 
the theater, thus defined, gives us, then, in 
the first place, a sure means of perceiving 
what in any subject there is of the novel or 
the drama. The fact is that people do not 
know this well enough; and the Naturalist 
school in France has committed no worse 
error than confusing the conditions of the 
two species. 

The same law provides, further, the pos- 
sibility of defining with precision the dra- 
matic species — about as one does the bio- 
logical species; and for that it is only neces- 
sary to consider the particular obstacle 
against which the will struggles. If these 
obstacles are recognized to be insurmount- 
able, or reputed to be so, as were, for ex- 
ample, in the eyes of the ancient Greeks, the 
decrees of Fate; or, in the eyes, of the Chris- 
tians, the decrees of Providence; as are, for 
us, the laws of nature, or the passions 
aroused to frenzy and becoming thus the in- 
ternal fatality of Phedre and of Roxane, of 
Hamlet or of Othello; — it is tragedy. The 
77 



incidents are generally terrifying, and the 
conclusion sanguinary, because in the struggle 
which man undertakes to make against fate, 
he is vanquished in advance, and must perish. 
Suppose now that he has a chance of victory, 
just one, that he still has in himself the power 
to conquer his passion; or suppose that, the 
obstacles which he is striving to overcome be- 
ing the work of his fellow men, as prejudice, 
for example, or social conventions, a man is 
for that very reason capable of surmounting 
them, — that is the drama properly speaking, 
romantic drama or social drama; 'Hernani' 
or 'Antony,' the 'Fils Naturel' or 'Madame 
Caverlet.' Change once more the nature of 
the obstacle, equalize, at least in appear- 
ance, the conditions of the struggle, bring 
together two opposing wills, Arnolphe and 
Agnes, Figaro and Almaviva, Suzanne 
d'Ange and Olivier de Jalin — that is com- 
edy. 'Don Sanche d'Aragon,' heroic com- 
edy, — you know this title of one of Corneille's 
plays. 'Berenice,' for the same reason, is 
hardly a tragedy. But instead of locating 
the obstacle in an opposing will, conscious 
and mistress of its acts, in a social conven- 
tion or in the fatality of destiny, let us locate 
78 



it in the irony of fortune, or in the ridiculous 
aspect of prejudice, or again in the dispropor- 
tion between the means and the end, — that 
is farce, that is the 'Legataire Universel,' the 
'Chapeau de Paille d'ltalie.' 

I do not say after that, that the types are 
always pure. In the history of literature or 
of art, as in nature, a type is almost never 
anything but an ideal, and consequently a 
limit. Where is the man among us, where is 
the woman, who embodies the perfection of 
the sex and of the species? There is more- 
over a natural relationship, we might say a 
consanguinity between adjoining species. Is 
a mulatto or a quadroon white or black? 
They are related to both. Likewise there 
may be an alliance or mixture of farce and 
comedy, of drama and tragedy. 'Celimare' 
is almost a comedy; the 'Cid' is almost a 
melodrama. It is nevertheless useful to 
have carefully defined the species; and if the 
law should only teach authors not to treat a 
subject of comedy by the devices of farce, 
that would be something. The general law 
of the theater is defined by the action of a 
will conscious of itself; and the dramatic 
79 



species are distinguished by the nature of the 
obstacles encountered by this will. 

And the quality of will measures and de- 
termines, in its turn, the dramatic value of 
each work in its species. Intelligence rules in 
the domain of speculation, but the will gov- 
erns in the field of action, and consequently 
in history. It is the will which gives power; 
and power is hardly ever lost except by a 
failure or relaxation of the will. But that 
is also the reason why men think there is 
nothing grander than the development of the 
will, whatever the object, and that is the 
reason for the superiority of tragedy over 
the other dramatic forms. One may prefer 
for one's own taste a farce to a tragedy; one 
ought even to prefer a good farce to a 
mediocre tragedy, that goes without saying; 
and we do it every day. One cannot deny 
that tragedy is superior to farce : 'Athalie' to 
the 'Legataire Universel,' and 'Ruy Bias' to 
the 'Trois Epiciers.' Another reason some- 
times given is that it implies indifference to 
death, but that is the same reason, if the su- 
preme effort of the will is to conquer the 
horror of death. But shall we say that com- 
edy is superior to farce, and why? We will 
80 



say that, and for the same reason, because 
the obstacles against which Crispin contends 
in the 'Legataire Universel' do not exist; 
strictly speaking; they are only an invention 
of Regnard; and so the will is exerting itself 
to no effect. The goal is only a lure, so the 
action is only a game. And we will say in 
conclusion that one drama is superior to an- 
other drama according as the quantity of 
will exerted is greater or less, as the share of 
chance is less, and that of necessity greater. 
Who doubts that 'Bajazet' is very much su- 
perior to 'Zaire' ? If you seek the true rea- 
son, you will find it here. 'Zaire' would not 
finish if Voltaire did not intervene at every 
moment in his work; but given the characters 
of Bajazet and Roxane, they develope as if 
of themselves; and does it not really seem 
as if Racine confined himself to observing 
their action? 

I will not continue. But I cannot refrain 
from noting the remarkable confirmation 
that this law finds in the general history of 
the theater. As a matter of factA it is al- 
ways at the exact moment of its national ex- 
istence when the will of a great people is ex- 
alted, so to speak, within itself, that we see 
81 



L 



its dramatic art reach also the highest point 
of its development, and produce its master- 
pieces. < Greek tragedy is contemporary with 
the Persian wars. iEschylus fought the 
Mede; and while the fleets were engaged in 
the waters of Salamis, on that very day, the 
legend has it, Euripides was born. Legend 
is perhaps not more true, but it is often more 
profound than history. Consider the Span- 
ish theater: Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Cal- 
deron, belong to the time when Spain was ex- 
tending over all of Europe, as well as over 
the New World, the domination of her will, 
or rather, as great causes do not always pro- 
duce their literary effects at once, they are of 
the time immediately following. And 
France in the seventeenth century? The 
greatest struggle that our fathers made to 
maintain, within as without, the unity of the 
French nation, or to bring it to pass, was at 
the end of the sixteenth century, and was 
under Henry IV, under Richelieu, under Ma- 
zarin. The development of the theater fol- 
lowed immediately. I see, indeed, that great 
strengthenings of the national will have not 
always been followed by a dramatic rena- 
scence, in England in the eighteenth century, 
82 



for example, or in Germany today ; but what 
I do not see, is a dramatic renascence whose 
dawn has not been announced, as it were, by 
some progress, or some arousing of the will. 
Think of the theater of Lessing, of Schiller, 
of Goethe and remember what Frederick the 
Great had done, a few years before, without 
knowing it perhaps, to give to the Germany 
of the eighteenth century a consciousness of 
herself and of her national genius. The 
converse is no less striking. If it is ex- 
tremely rare that a great development of the 
novel is contemporary even with a great de- 
velopment of the theater — if in France in 
particular, when the Molieres, the Corneilles, 
the Racines have appeared, we have seen the 
Artamenes, the Faramons, the Astrees sink 
gently into oblivion, or again if Gil Bias, 
Manon Lescaut, Marianne are contempo- 
rary, at the beginning of the eighteenth cen- 
tury, with an exhaustion only too certain of 
the dramatic vein, — it is because in literature 
as in nature, the competition is always keen- 
est between the neighboring species; and the 
soil is rarely rich enough for two rival va- 
rieties to prosper, develope and multiply in 
peace. But it is also because, being as we 
83 



have seen, the contrary each of the other, 
drama and novel do not answer to the same 
conception of life. Gil Bias and Figaro, I 
repeat, belong to the same family; they can- 
not belong to the same time; and between 
them, if you take the trouble to examine care- 
fully, there is all the interval that separates 
the relaxation of the will in the time of the 
Regency, from the vigorous recovery that it 
makes on the eve of the Revolution. What 
can be more singular? But if the theater 
has for its object to present the development 
of the will, what can be more natural? The 
Orientals have no drama, but they have 
novels. That is because they are fatalists, or 
determinists if you prefer, which amounts to 
the same thing, for today at least ; and when 
the Greeks had a drama, they no longer had 
novels, I mean epics; they no longer had an 
'Odyssey.* 

You see the reason, don't you? Are we 
free agents? Or are we not? Are we the 
masters of events? Or are we only their 
dupes, their playthings, their victims? I 
don't know; at this moment I don't care to 
know, and you may believe that I am not 
going to dabble in metaphysics here. But in 
84 



any case it appears that our belief in our 
freedom is of no small assistance in the 
struggle that we undertake against the ob- 
stacles which prevent us from attaining our 
object. And I grant that in order to suc- 
ceed in dominating nature, or even in re- 
forming society, it is not necessary to be- 
lieve one's self capable of it. There is al- 
ways an acquired momentum of the human 
race that aids the insufficience of individual 
effort. But that is not without value either; 
for one does not attempt the impossible. The 
bond between the belief in free will and the 
exertion of the will explains therefore pretty 
well the favor or the moral support given, at 
certain epochs, to an art whose essential ob- 
ject is the representation of the power of the 
will. A question of fitness, or, as we say, of 
adaptation to environment. The belief in 
determinism is more favorable to the pro- 
gress of the novel, but the belief in free will 
is more favorable to the progress of dra- 
matic art. Men of action, Richelieu, Conde, 
Frederick, Napoleon, have always been fond 
of the theater. 

And why may we not see here, in a sort of 
weakening of the will among us, one at least 

85 



of the reasons for what we have generally 
called, for the last ten years, the dramatic 
crisis? Drama does not "go" they tell us. 
Comedy is languishing. Farce is dying out. 
As a matter of fact, I am sure that there is 
some exaggeration in the wail. Your 'An- 
nates' would suffice to prove it, if need be. 
But that the contemporary drama is inferior 
as a whole to the drama of only twenty or 
twenty-five years ago, it seems to me diffi- 
cult not to admit. On the other hand, the 
philosophers, or even mere observers, com- 
plain that the power of will is weakening, re- 
laxing, disintegrating. People no longer 
know how to exert their will, they say, and I 
am afraid that they have some right to say 
it. We are broken-winded, as the poet says. 
We are abandoning ourselves. We are let- 
ting ourselves drift with the current. Are 
you not tempted to see here something more 
than a mere coincidence? For my part, I see 
here the explanation of the crisis, and at the 
same time another proof of the truth of the 
Law of the theater. 

Permit me to stop here. . . . 

As I was saying, my dear Noel, — no, I 
have not yet said it — the subject is one of 
86 



those which would fill a book, and 1 have not 
time to write the book, and if I did write it, 
you would not be able to use it. In the 
meantime, since you have believed that the 
idea of the book might deserve discussion, I 
have been glad to take the opportunity which 
you offered me to express it. I have been 
able only to indicate rapidly a few of its ap- 
plications but I noted others in my lectures at 
the Odeon ; and now I see an infinite number 
of them. If your readers should see still 
more, that is about all I could desire. I say 
about all, for there is one thing more I 
should like, and that is, that they should 
grasp clearly the difference between the 
idea of Law and the idea of Rule: the 
Rule being always limited by its very ex- 
pression, incapable of exceeding it without 
destroying itself, always narrow, conse- 
quently unbending, rigid, or so to speak, 
tyrannical; and the Law, on the contrary, 
inevitable by definition and so fundamentally 
immutable, but broad, supple, flexible in its 
application, very simple and very general at 
the same time, very rich in applications, and, 
without ceasing to be the Law, always ready 
to be enriched by whatever reflection, experi- 
87 



ence, or history contribute in confirmations to 
explain it, or in contradictions to be ab- 
sorbed in it. 

April i, 1894. 

(Translated by Philip M. Hay den.) 



NOTES 



NOTES 

Brunetiere's paper was published as the 
preface to the volume dealing with the 
French theater for the year 1893 m tne ser " 
ies entitled 'Annales du Theatre et de la Mu- 
sique' edited by Edouard Noel and Edmond 
Stoullig. As its writer notes it clarifies a 
theory of the drama which had been put for- 
ward less sharply in a series of lectures on 
the 'Epoques du Theatre Frangais' delivered 
at the Odeon theater in Paris in the 
winter of 1 891-2 and published shortly 
thereafter. The theory as finally stated 
by Brunetiere in his own, altho it seems 
to have had its origin in the doctrine 
of the "tragic conflict" declared by Hegel 
and taken over by Schlegel and Coleridge. 
The idea that tragedy must present a strug- 
gle is perhaps as ancient as Aristotle. In 
Professor A. C. Bradley's 'Oxford Lectures 
on Poetry' (1909) there is an admirable an- 
alysis of Hegel's theory of tragedy. But 
Brunetiere goes far beyond Hegel and Aris- 
totle. He subordinates the idea of struggle 
to the idea of volition. And in so doing he 
broadens the doctrine to include not tragedy 
only but all the manifold forms of the drama. 

It is somewhat remarkable that Brune- 



tiere's new declaration of the law of the 
drama excited little or no discussion either in 
France or elsewhere when it was first made. 
For example, it was not cited by M. Emile 
Faguet, in his suggestive 'Drame Ancien, 
Drame Moderne,' published in 1898, altho 
it would have been useful to his argument 
had he known it. Attention was first di- 
rected to it in the opening chapter on the 
'Art of the Dramatist' in the 'Development 
of the Drama' by Professor Brander Mat- 
thews, published in 1903. The same writer 
in his 'Study of the Drama,' issued in 19 10, 
devoted a chapter to the 'Law of the 
Drama' in which Brunetiere's theory was 
accepted with a mild protest against the arbi- 
trary rigor of Brunetiere's declaration and 
with the suggestion that it might have been 
better if the strenuous French critic had laid 
down his principle more as a deduction from 
a careful consideration of the masterpieces 
of the drama, ancient and modern, the result 
of which would show that "the attention of 
an audience in a theater can be aroused and 
retained only by an exhibition of the human 
will." Brunetiere's law is accepted also in 
Mr. Clayton Hamilton's 'Theory of the 
Theater,' published in 19 10, altho it more 
or less questioned in this writer's later 
'Studies in Stagecraft,' published in 19 14. 
But it is disputed in Mr. William Archer's 
92 



Tlaymaking,' published in 191 2, this critic 
pointing out the difficulty of finding a genuine 
conflict in many of the best known plays and 
suggesting that "the essence of the drama is 
crisis." Perhaps there is not quite so dis- 
tinct a difference between "conflict" and 
"crisis" as is here suggested. But no fault 
can be found with a later assertion of the 
author of Tlaymaking' : "The only really 
valid definition is: Any representation of 
imaginary personages which is capable of in- 
teresting an average audience assembled in a 
theater. . . . Any further attempt to 
limit the context of the term 'dramatic' is 
simply the expression of an opinion that 
such-and-such forms of representation will 
not be found to interest an audience; and 
this opinion may always be rebutted by ex- 
periment." 

The so-called Rules of the drama, which 
Brunetiere contemptuously brushed aside as 
lacking in the validity of ascertained Law, 
are those which had been elaborated by the 
Italian theorists of the Renascence to be re- 
inforced by the professed critics of every 
modern language, — altho the practical play- 
wrights of England and Spain steadily re- 
fused to be shackled by them. Even after 
Lessing had demolished the authority of 
these Rules in Germany they still fettered 
the dramatists of France. They are found 
93 



in all their final rigidity in the 'Cours Analy- 
tique de Litterature', by Nepomucene Le- 
mercier, delivered as lectures in 1810-11 and 
published in 18 17 in three volumes, wherein 
the lecturer catalogs the twenty-five Rules 
to which the writer of tragedy must conform 
at his peril and the twenty-two Rules with 
which the writer of comedy must comply. 

Only ten years after the publication of 
this Draconian code, Victor Hugo penned 
his flamboyant declaration of independence 
in the preface to his unactable dramatic 
poem, 'Cromwell' published in 1827, in 
which he attacked the citadel of Classicism. 
"Nevertheless they repeat, and for a little 
while, no doubt, they will go on repeating: 
"Follow the Rules! Imitate the models! 
It was the Rules which guided the models ! 
— But wait a moment. In this case there 
must be two sorts of models, those which 
were made according to the Rules, and 
earlier those according to which the Rules 
were made." 

B. M. 



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